Lunch With the Devil
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Of what little I can remember; it went something like a dream. I
was there. No arrival. No introduction. I was just there in the middle of
things. My meal was already half-eaten and I could taste the seasonings in my
mouth, but couldn’t quite place what they were. The lettuce on the plate looked
wet and slimy. Perhaps rancid. I had a stale taste of dust in my mouth.
Sometimes stale bread made me feel that way. Or the flaked skin from sunflower seeds
or something similar. It was not an appetizing feeling. But I wasn’t sure why I
was at lunch anyway.
Lunch with the devil. A ridiculous theme at a ridiculous event. Rock-and-rollers
from a different era, thirty years too late. I was a child, but I remember the
leather pants and the overblown hair and makeup. Most of these men were old
enough to be someone’s grandfather. They wouldn’t know what cosplay was, but
this was basically a cosplay festival for boomers, jonesers and Xers. Except
these people somehow thought glam rock and British punk was still edgy.
The girl was twenty-two, maybe. She had no business being in a
place like this. Leather crop top that was too tight and pushed everything to
the point of spilling out. Western cut pants, with matching books and chaps. Mile
high hair, rock solid from too much hairspray. It was comical. A parody of a
parody of something someone once saw in a Halloween costume shop.
She seemed serious, and I half expected five or six of her friends
to show up in matching costumes, all as part of a sorority hazing event.
Were there still sororities at High Schools and Colleges? Had that
gone out of fashion? I was told by many media sources that this generation was
far more conservative and reserved than mine had been and that drinking and
debauchery had gone out of style. I didn’t think that was possible, but what
did I know? I was an old man now too, relying on information from an article so
I could try to understand what was happening. I could ask the girl, but she was
half my age and there was no way it wouldn’t come across as some sort of creepy
move to hit on her.
I suddenly felt flushed and a little sick to my stomach. I was embarrassed
and could feel my temperature rise, sure that all eyes were on me. The food was
subpar and the music hadn’t begun, but I had to go. Having wasted my time,
money, and stepped all over my pride, I walked across the room, a wounded duck,
trying to avert my eyes and not make eye contact with anyone. The girl was
somewhere, ahead or behind or to the side. I didn’t want to know.
Out in the hall, I stopped and looked for a bathroom. I wanted to
dunk my head in a sink of water and run cold water all over the back of my
head. That should stop the sweating. That should stop the panic and anxiety I
was feeling.
The dispenser was out of paper towels and the air dryer was
designed for hands to be stuck into a shaped receptacle. I tried to dry my
forehead with my shirt sleeve, leaving my shirt looking like a wet mess.
I peaked out the door to make sure no one was in the lobby to see
me in such a disheveled state. Seemingly
clear, I fled the building and ran to my car. The day ruined; my mind stuck in a negative spiral.
And I was never much of a fan of glam rock anyway. What a waste of time and
energy.
I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to stop thinking of the
girl.
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